


One Step Too Close

by Garonne



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Not A Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 03:38:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5359679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/pseuds/Garonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon makes a split-second decision that costs him everything he holds dear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Step Too Close

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hils](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hils/gifts).



> OC death. This is not a feel-good fic.
> 
> Written for the Halloween prompt challenge at the mfu_scrapbook comm on livejournal. Many thanks to Elijahwildchild for beta-reading.

.. .. ..

I roared into the parking lot, Illya's motorbike close behind me. The THRUSH men were sitting at one of the picnic tables, eating sandwiches and looking the picture of innocence.

The Gasthof was a low, wooden building, with a steep roof built for heavy snow. Now it was the height of summer, and the chalet's balconies were a riot of pink geraniums. A handful of cars were parked outside, tourists stopping for lunch. A rickety wire fence separated the grassy parking lot from a field full of Alpine cows.

Illya propped his motorbike up on its kickstand beside mine. He pushed up his goggles and took a quick look around him, then headed into the Gasthof. It was his turn to replenish our supplies, while I kept an eye on the pair of THRUSH couriers we were following.

It was a glorious day. The jagged peaks of the Alps were set against clear blue skies, and warm sunshine beat down on us.

We'd been following the couriers for three days now, trying to identify their destination, and hoping we'd get orders to move in and relieve them of their package before they got there -- at least it would alleviate the tedium of the job.

It was an easy job, almost a milk run. No doubt Waverly had given it to us because of what had happened on our previous mission. Or rather -- not to go too easy on myself -- because our previous mission ended in disaster through my fault.

I didn't look directly at our targets, but stood facing the other direction, a carefree tourist enjoying the view of the mountains. We didn't usually get this close to the THRUSH men. We had a tracer on them, which allowed us to follow from a more discreet distance. The motorbikes had been my idea. The Alps are full of them in the summer, and one pair of motorcyclists looks much the same as another, all muffled up in helmet and leathers.

Illya came back, bearing bread, cheese and milk. We rolled our bikes around to the other side of the Gasthof, away from the THRUSH couriers. 

Illya sat down on a convenient rock and unfolded the map, picking the route to follow. He laid his finger down on a narrow, winding road that snaked along the contour line of the mountains.

"This one," he said. "That way we'll intersect with their route again in Steingau, if that's where they're going next. And if they turn off here instead, we can still cut across here -- " He indicated a narrow white line on the map, cutting through a mountain pass. " -- and pick up their trail again."

He looked up, clearly expecting my approval, and I nodded.

"Good," he said, and folded up the map with quick, sharp movements.

He made himself a sandwich and began to eat. I chose another rock and did the same.

We had spent many years eating in comfortable silence together, or waiting, or simply resting. We spoke when we wanted and didn't when we didn't want to, which was more often the case for Illya than for me.

But these last few weeks, those quiet moments between us felt strained. Illya's silence felt like an unspoken criticism.

I'd done something on the spur of the moment, and we didn't yet know what the consequences would be.

And I still had no idea how Illya felt about the whole mess.

.. .. ..

That night we slept in a small chalet that rented out rooms at half-board. The accommodations were basic, and the bathroom was along the corridor from our room. When I came back from brushing my teeth I found Illya sitting on one of the beds with the tracker and the map, scribbling distances and angles on a scrap of paper.

"They're sleeping in Schoppenhof," he said finally, "or somewhere just outside."

He folded up the map and tidied everything away, then brushed past me on the way out to the bathroom. He'd already scattered some of his belongings across one of the beds, so I took the other, though in fact each bed was just about wide enough for two.

Illya returned after a few minutes. He stopped in the doorway for a second, looking at me in bed. I thought I saw a flash of pain in his eyes, quickly suppressed.

"Have you set the alarm?" he asked neutrally.

"For five."

He switched off the light, and the room was plunged into near-perfect darkness. I heard him get into the other bed, and then the rustle of sheets as he pulled them up around him.

Before, we would have been in the same bed. We would have kissed each other good-night, and I would have fallen asleep with his arm flung over me.

"Goodnight, Illya," I said into the darkness.

I heard his bed creak, and his shadowy outline moved as he turned over to face me. There was only a foot of space between the two beds, and soon a warm hand brushed my cheek.

"Goodnight, Napoleon," he said softly, and then the touch was withdrawn.

After a few minutes, I heard the cadence of his breathing change, and knew he was asleep. 

I turned onto my back, and stared blindly up at the ceiling. I couldn't seem to fall asleep myself. My mind was running along well-worn tracks, reliving once more the end of our last mission.

It had been a very simple situation. There was Illya, and there was the girl. She was leaning on a tree, looking like it was the only thing keeping her upright, and he was talking to her quietly. We were deep in the forest, it was cold and dark, and the girl was exhausted. She'd been caught up in all this through no fault of her own, and we'd been trekking through the forest for miles now, finally approaching the perimeter of THRUSH-controlled territory.

I'd gone to scout ahead, and I was coming back, just a few feet away from the two of them, when I saw it: the flash of moonlight glinting on metal in the undergrowth. I threw myself at Illya, pushing him to the ground, and the girl was hit, a high-powered rifle bullet through the heart.

It was a split-second decision. 

I could have argued that I'd acted for the sake of the mission: the list of names and addresses we'd gone in to get was inside Illya's head. He'd memorized the list, and I'd never even seen it. But I didn't try to pretend that. It would have been a lie. In my report I simply wrote the facts as they were. Just my actions, and not my motivations.

Waverly didn't ask. But I knew he was biding his time.

As for Illya, he hadn't said anything, then or since.

I remembered rolling off Illya, firing almost blind at the sniper at the same time, hitting him by some miracle. And then there was nothing but the deep, blanketing silence of the woods.

I raised my head and saw the body. She lay on a carpet of pine-needles, her arms flung out. She'd fallen awkwardly.

I turned away, retching dryly into the grass, as I hadn't done since I was about eighteen and first saw death.

.. .. ..

The next morning we dressed in the dark, and left the chalet before six. The air was still cool at this time of day, but soon the sun rose, and then we were roaring along on roads dappled by sunshine coming through the trees. The route was deserted, and I let the throb of the motor numb me.

I hadn't got much sleep. I'd dreamed about that forest every night in the two weeks since then and now it seemed to overlay everything, even the sunny day around me.

Her name was Karen Wencelas. She was a local girl, who worked at the offices of the Minnesota logging company THRUSH had gradually taken over. I'd met her when I was undercover there, and she'd taken a shine to me. I took quite a shine to her too, with her bright smile and soft Midwestern accent. She'd been very plucky, and had helped us out a lot.

They caught on to her soon enough, though, and we only just got her out in time -- not that that made any difference for her in the end.

.. .. ..

We stopped for lunch a little before noon, by a clear blue Alpine lake. Its rocky grey sides rose steeply into the surrounding peaks, their lines broken only by the gravel beach where we'd stopped.

It was my turn to work the tracker. I pulled it out, and balanced it and the map on the back of my bike. It gave us a direction but not a distance, beyond the fact that if the THRUSH men went outside a certain range we couldn't trace them at all. If I took into account our knowledge of their previous position, however, there were only two possible roads they could be on. I planned out our own route and a few contingency plans, then went to find Illya.

He was lying on his front on a rocky outcrop overhanging the lake, looking down into the water, motorcycle goggles pushed up on his forehead.

"Fish?" I said

Caught unawares, he looked up, and flashed me a grin.

"Salmon, I think."

I hadn't seen that smile in two weeks, and I felt it deep in my insides, a sudden rush of affection. God, I loved him.

Then the smile vanished, and he scrambled to his feet, withdrawn from me again even as he walked towards me.

"We shouldn't stop for too long," he said, turning to our packs.

Illya and I had already been partners three years the first time we slept together. It was the start of a glorious litany of hotel beds, grassy clearings, parked cars in country roads -- and our own beds in New York more often than I could count.

There was no one I knew more intimately. And the closer we became over the years, the better we worked together. We could never have pulled off half the missions we did if we weren't so close. And he knew me just as I knew him. I was fairly sure he loved me, for some definition of the word love.

Sitting on the gravelly beach that day, we ate in silence, looking out across the clear blue water. Illya was plunged in thought, as he had been for two weeks now, and so was I. In my head, everything was whirling around, doubt and fear uppermost. Had we lost everything: our partnership, our friendship, our relationship?

We had pushed the limits before now, risking the mission to save each other. We did it all the time. But this was a step farther -- a step too far.

Was Waverly going to break up our partnership? I was pretty sure he'd sent us off on this ridiculously easy job to give himself time to think about it. It was what logic said he should do. We were too close -- so close that he couldn't predict our actions any more. 

And could we? What would Illya have done in the same situation? Did he know? I didn't, until I acted.

What would I do if I had to make the same decision over again? I didn't want to answer that.

.. .. ..

By ten o'clock that evening the THRUSH couriers seemed to have settled down for the night. We found a place to sleep ourselves, in a hut run by the Alpine Club. The dormitory was a large room up under the rafters, lined with mattresses placed on the floor. Fortunately we were the only ones there that night.

Illya sat down to count out our money. Everything was in cash here and we were spending a lot on mountain toll roads. I gave my gun a quick once-over. I hadn't used it in two weeks, since that night in the forest. Then I slipped out to the very basic bathroom.

I came back to find Illya sitting on his mattress with his back to the door, his head bowed, his arms resting on his knees, hands hanging laxly.

"Waverly called," he said without looking round. "There's been some fresh intel, and the priority of our mission here has been reconsidered. We're to fly back to New York tomorrow."

"Ah."

He didn't answer. I couldn't see much more than the outline of his body in the shadows, his back to me. We'd chosen the mattresses furthest from the door, and the only light in the room was a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, several yards away. Our corner was dimly lit.

After a minute, I came to sit down beside him on the mattress, and he leaned against me, our shoulders touching.

So by the day after tomorrow at the latest we'd be back in New York. Time to learn what decision Waverly would have come to in our absence. Time to face the music. And face each other.

When Illya broke the silence, his voice was low, almost a whisper.

"I keep wondering if I'd have done the same thing as you. I don't know."

It was very quiet in the attic room. I could only see Illya's face in profile, a shadowy silhouette.

He took a deep breath, and let it out in a long, slow sound.

"We can't work together any more, Napoleon."

I didn't answer. I didn't feel I could argue with that.

"But that's not the worst of it, is it?" I said quietly.

He turned to me, and his eyes held a misery I could hardly bear to see.

"Every time I look at you I see her face."

Something seemed to catch in my throat. I'd already known it, but to hear it from him -- it turned me hollow inside.

He reached out, caressing my cheek. Then his arms went around me, and I drew him close. I felt his lips brush my neck, my cheek, my hair.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, not even knowing what I was saying.

That got me a hollow, half-swallowed laugh.

"For saving my life?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry this happened."

Illya didn't answer, just pulled me tighter. I couldn't do anything except cling on to him -- and that, I was determined to do as long as I could.

.. .. ..


End file.
